Joyride
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Frank is the bad cop, the judge stays up to watch the double feature, and Mark takes a drive down memory lane in his uncle's '59 Bonneville.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Rated: PG

Author's notes: The movie the judge is watching is _The Comancheros_, 1961, the last film directed by Michael Curtiz (who, coincidentally, was the director of _Casablanca_). In this film, a Texas Ranger (Wayne) arrests a ne'er-do-well but good-hearted gambler (Whitman) who is wrongly wanted for murder, but then gets him released. Then the two team up to go after some really bad guys. It's been on cable way more than three times in the last month.

Many thanks to Cheri, who reminded me that if you're going to wake somebody up every two to three hours, you'd darn well better not let them sleep for five, and who also apparently remembers _every_ line from"Rolling Thunder". Oh, my dear, you keep me from straying.

Joyride

By L. M. Lewis

Frank Harper was grateful for the interruption when he was called out of the line-up viewing area, and even more grateful when he found out who had arrived.

"Milt," he stalked into his office, greeting the man with a frustrated wave of his hand, "what the hell took you so long?"

Hardcastle looked up from where he'd taken a seat and gave him the puzzled look of someone who'd come in on the last act and hadn't been given a program. "I told you I'd be coming by late for those files."

"He didn't call you, did he?" Frank shook his head in exasperation. "He _told_ me he'd called you from the hospital."

Puzzlement gave way to concern but the judge hadn't had time to open his mouth again, before Frank barreled ahead. "Dammit. I should have known he'd pull a stunt like this. I _did_ know. I was just about to call you myself and have you come down here and talk some sense into that bullheaded-"

"McCormick? What's he—?"

"He's downstairs."

"In the _lockup_?" Concern moved over to make way for alarm.

"No, in the lineup area, the _viewing_ area of the lineup room. And now he's suddenly suffering from a very selective form of amnesia where he can't recognize the guy who hit him upside the head with a Smith Wesson .38 and tried to make off with the Coyote this afternoon."

The judge frowned. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, treated and released. You know, right after it happened he gave a very accurate description of the perp. In fact it was good enough that the beat cop knew who he was talking about-one of our rising young stars, Carlos Tobeck."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Yeah, well, he was only fourteen when you retired, but he's coming along fast." Frank rubbed his forehead wearily. "So now he's working on the firearms section of his resume, and the DA wants to tag him as an adult, if we can get Mark to give us a positive ID."

"Does McCormick know about that?"

"Ahh . . . maybe." Frank frowned. "You know he's around here so much, the two of you are; it's kind of like he's become background noise. Nobody would think twice about what they said in front of him. You think—?"

Hardcastle was up out of the chair and moving past Harper. "Lemme see him."

Frank ushered him out of the room and down the stairs. "Talk to him, Milt. I tried; it was like he wasn't there." Hardcastle nodded tightly as he opened the door to the viewing room and stepped inside, leaving the very frustrated lieutenant standing in the hallway.

There was only one chair in the small, dimly-lit room. It was unoccupied. McCormick was standing at the viewing window, facing the bright but empty line-up area. He didn't turn when the door opened.

"Well," at this first word, McCormick looked over his shoulder at the judge with a look of sharp surprise, "you've managed to lose the Coyote, get your head banged up, and piss off Frank; sounds like a full day."

McCormick shook his head and produced a ghost of a smile. "Nah, that only took part of the afternoon. Before that I found a rebuilt fuel pump for the 'Vette. And anyway, I think the Coyote is pretty much okay. The guy didn't know how to double clutch. He didn't get very far before he abandoned it."

"So you figure 'no harm, no foul'? Or is this 'honor among thieves'?"

What little smile there had been disappeared, to be replaced by wariness. "So which one of you is supposed to be the 'good cop'?" he asked levelly. "And last time I checked, I was a _victim_ on this one, not a thief." He held Hardcastle with a long glare, then looked down. "I really just want to go home right now."

"You're sure? Frank'll put 'em up there for you one more time."

"Yeah," Mark said wearily, "I'm sure." He gestured casually toward the line-up room. "You know all these guys look the same, right?"

00000

Harper was still waiting in the hallway when the two men emerged. McCormick strode past him without a word and was halfway down the hall to the stairs. The lieutenant turned to Hardcastle and lifted one eyebrow. The answer was a brief shake of the judge's head.

Mark had turned the corner. They heard his steps on the stairs. "I thought you'd be able to _lean_ on him," Frank muttered.

"Do you want a willing witness?" The judge asked mildly.

"Yes," Frank replied, "if _possible_. But I'll settle for outright coercion if it'll keep our boy, Carlos, off the street."

"Listen, can you hold onto him, at least until tomorrow?"

"Yeah, the GTA is pretty secure. The pursuing officer saw him exit the vehicle. It's just the 245.2 that we need Mark's testimony to nail him on."

"Okay, well, then give me a little time." The two men entered the stairwell. McCormick was waiting at the top.

"Where's the Coyote, Frank?" he asked impatiently.

Frank looked at him blandly. "In impound. You wouldn't have wanted them to leave it out there where he left it, would you?"

McCormick glanced down at his watch, then up at the judge. "Okay, they're open till what? Eight, right? We can get over there."

"They're going to need a copy of the police report." Frank added, smiling thinly, "I don't think that's going to be ready for a while."

Hardcastle stepped forward, one hand on McCormick's shoulder, easing him back a little. He heard the younger man mutter, "Well, at least we know who the 'bad cop' is, this time around."

"We'll stop by for the report in the morning, Frank," the judge kept steering McCormick toward the door.

00000

They rode home in tense silence. As they were pulling in the driveway, the judge finally asked, "You _did_ actually go to the ER, didn't you?"

"Yeah," McCormick replied sullenly. "The beat cop sort of insisted. And I did call you from there. It was about four."

Hardcastle pulled up to the house and put the truck in park. "You knew I was going over to Culver City; I wasn't supposed to be back until six."

McCormick shrugged. "I told Frank I called. I _called_." He got out of the truck, closed the door and had taken three steps in the direction of the gatehouse.

"Wait a second, kiddo." Hardcastle was out of the truck. "Let's see the papers." He gestured with one hand.

There was anger in the younger man's eyes as he turned. "You _don't_ believe me, do you?"

Hardcastle replied calmly, "I do believe you; that's why I know you've got some papers I need to look at. You didn't throw them away, did you?"

McCormick hesitated for a moment, then shook his head as he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a thickly folded double sheet.

"There, see," the judge unfolded it and moved closer toward the porch light so he could see what was written, "I told ya." He looked at the printed page. "Says here that somebody responsible is supposed to make sure you're okay every couple of hours." He was perusing the all-too-familiar list of instructions. "Last time I checked, I was the responsible party around here." He unlocked the front door and pointed McCormick inside.

Mark gritted his teeth and preceded him reluctantly. "What I _need_ is some sleep."

"Okay, sofa or the guest room?" Hardcastle remained aggravatingly calm.

Mark hesitated again. The sofa meant most likely being in the same room with a man who had turned 'getting at the truth' into an art form, but the guest room meant more of a commitment to actually spending the night in the main house. And he had every hope of sneaking back to his own place once Hardcase had turned in for the night.

"Sofa," he said abruptly, and stopped at the hall closet to grab down the spare pillow and blanket.

"Want something to eat?"

"No, not hungry," McCormick said, and headed toward the den, hoping to cut the conversation short.

"Will it bother you if I watch TV?" the judge inquired. "I'll turn it down."

McCormick felt a twinge of guilt at all this uncustomary thoughtfulness, followed immediately by another surge of irritation. He _knew_ what the old donkey was up to.

"No problem," he smiled grimly, "John Wayne is the very best thing for the recently concussed. You can ask me at any point what's the next line in the script and if I don't know, you have my permission to call an ambulance." He trudged into the den and dropped onto the sofa, stuffing the pillow under his head and dragging the blanket up over himself.

00000

He woke up, not realizing he had fallen asleep. It took a moment to place everything. There was only one light on, the lamp over the chair, where the judge sat studying the flickering image on the TV. The sound was almost inaudible. John Wayne was climbing onto a wagon with Stuart Whitman.

"I often wonder what I ever did to deserve you," McCormick muttered.

"Huh?" The judge looked over his shoulder at him.

"Wait for it," Mark pointed at the screen. "There." He snapped his fingers as Whitman said the line.

"Lucky guess," the judge laughed.

"Lucky? Hah. Cable. It was on twice last month and we watched it both times." McCormick ran his fingers through his hair and winced. "What time is it anyway?"

Hardcastle glanced at the wind-up alarm clock he'd placed on the end table next to his chair. "10:55. I wasn't going to wake you up until eleven-thirty. Want some popcorn?" He held out the half-empty bowl.

McCormick blanched and said, "No, thanks. I'm fine. Can I go to bed now?" Hardcastle pointed up. Mark grumbled and hunkered back down on the sofa. "Not at eleven-thirty. Reset that thing, will ya?"

00000

Someone was jostling his shoulder. He muttered and tried to turn over, only to realize he was on a sofa, not in bed, and the insistent annoyance was Hardcastle. The TV was now flickering in black and white, an older film he didn't recognize, and the sound was completely off.

"What?" He looked blearily past Hardcastle and saw the clock, two in the morning. He hadn't heard the alarm.

"You okay?"

He started to say 'sure' but realized he wasn't. His head throbbed and his mouth felt like the inside of an old boot. He wondered just how much it would cost him, in terms of further evaluation, to ask for a couple of aspirin and a cup of water. It wasn't necessary; the judge was already handing him a glass, and two tablets. He propped himself up, took a cautious swig, then the pills, then a longer drink.

"Thanks." He handed the glass back. "What are you watching?"

"Um," the judge glanced over his shoulder, "'The Flying Tigers'. Don't really need the sound on for that one."

"How many times have you seen it?"

Hardcastle smiled. "Not sure, a few, but the time I remember the best is when I saw it at the Bijou, in Clarence." He was studying the small screen. "That was my last home leave. Right after that the Sixth shipped out to Hawaii, to finish training."

McCormick said nothing. He had been totally prepared to be grilled, cajoled, even threatened, but not _confided in._ That might be the most dangerous of all. Still, "I'll bet the real thing wasn't much like the movies, was it?" he heard himself say. He couldn't help it.

"Not much." The judge shook his head. "'Course, we were infantry."

McCormick was sitting up now; his head hurt less that way. He put his hand to his forehead, felt a cold slick of sweat, and swallowed hard a couple of times so he wouldn't lose the pills and the water. The judge had reached over and snagged the empty wastebasket and set it down nearby. "S'okay," Mark swallowed again.

"No it's _not_." Hardcastle looked at him sternly. "It's number five on the list: persistent vomiting."

"Persistent?" McCormick rested his head back against the sofa. "I haven't even _started_ yet."

"Yeah, 'cause you haven't eaten anything."

Mark lifted his head slightly. "I'm sort of still at the 'why bother?' stage."

Hardcastle shook his head. "I don't get it."

McCormick knew exactly what it was that the judge didn't get, but was in no mood to discuss it. Instead he replied, "Well, if you don't get it, I doubt if I can explain it." Then he eased himself back down onto the pillow and stubbornly closed his eyes.

00000

He'd been awake for a few minutes, watching the hands of the clock creep towards four-thirty, but he was pretty sure the judge wasn't. His head felt a little better. The images on the TV had gone back to color, but it was some interminable commercial about a device that could slice and dice and turn carrots into roses. He eased off the couch slowly and edged around the coffee table. Silently reaching forward, he turned the TV off. No response from the man in the chair.

He took a couple more slow steps toward the end table and reached out for the alarm clock.

"I'm not asleep, you know, just resting my eyes." The sudden voice made him jerk his hand back in surprise. Hardcastle picked the alarm clock up and reset it. "How are you doing?"

McCormick retreated to the sofa. "Better." He sat back down. "Really."

"How 'bout something to eat? Got some nice salami and rye in there."

McCormick winced. "Not that much better."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

McCormick sighed. "Listen, Judge, you should hit the sack. I'm okay. Really. I'll even stay right here if you want."

"I'm fine here. I'm retired; I don't have anything big planned for tomorrow."

"You're gonna give me a lift over to impound to pick up the Coyote in the morning."

"Yeah, after we stop by and pick up the papers from Frank."

McCormick winced again. Then there was a pause before he said, "It was a lousy line-up, Judge, and he knows it. Hell, I even knew one of the other guys; it was, what's his name-the guy from vice with the earring and the scar."

"Brad Keegan?"

"Yeah, him. He couldn't find anybody who was within five years of that kid."

"Frank probably thought it was just a formality; he said you described the guy to the beat cop right down to his shoelaces. How was he supposed to know you were going to have second thoughts?"

"Look, all I'm saying is, it coulda been any kid. All I would've had to have gotten was a glimpse. _Any _sixteen-year-old. There was only one guy young enough to be him in that line-up."

"That's it then? That's the problem? If he puts together a fair line-up, you'll do an ID for him?"

McCormick took a mental step backwards, feeling the edge of the argument crumbling away underneath him, "Wait a minute, I-"

"I thought so." Hardcastle sat forward in his chair and fixed the younger man with a steady gaze. "Listen to me. He may look like a kid, but they don't stay that way long once they start toting a gun around."

"They've got him on the GTA; if he's got a record, he'll do some time in juvie."

"Yeah, but he'll be out in under a year and the only thing he'll have learned from this is that the next time he wants to go joyriding, he should pick a car with an automatic transmission."

"Joyriding," McCormick muttered. Then he shook his head, ignoring the pain, and eased himself back down onto the couch. Staring up at the ceiling, he said nothing more.

00000

There was an inkling of dawn in the gray light in the hallway. McCormick padded into the kitchen and turned on the light, shielding his eyes from it for a few seconds. He got a glass of water, drank it, thought about the results for a moment, and then reached for a bowl and went to the other cupboard to get down a box of cornflakes.

He had the cereal and milk poured, and was sitting at the table with a spoon poised, when the judge came in, blinking.

"Good morning, want some?" He pointed to the box with his spoon.

The judge shook his head and started setting up the coffeemaker.

McCormick smiled. "I thought old people didn't need much sleep."

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder at him. "There's a difference between 'not much' and 'hardly any at all'. But we'll just see who's holding up better at two this afternoon."

"No contest. I'll be taking a nap." McCormick replied.

"I thought you were going to replace the fuel pump in the 'Vette today." The judge was letting the first serving of coffee drip right into a cup.

"Trust me, Judge," Mark smiled, "you want your mechanic to have a nap before he works on your car."

Hardcastle slipped the cup out and the carafe into place, then came over to the table and took a seat. He nodded at the cereal bowl. "I see you're past the 'why bother' stage."

McCormick nodded, taking another spoonful.

"Well," the judge looked down at his watch. "It's six now. Impound doesn't open until eight; Frank probably won't be in until eight-thirty. You can get a nap in before we go."

Mark continued chewing and hitched his thumb back over his shoulder in the direction of the gatehouse.

"Yeah, why not." Hardcastle added, with a note of resignation.

Mark swallowed. He sat there staring at the bowl.

"You know I haven't seen all of your juvenile record," the judge added abruptly.

McCormick looked up. "Yeah, I know, most of it's sealed."

"But there's one thing I'd be willing to bet any money on." He took a sip of coffee. McCormick's eyebrows were up in an unasked question. He went on, "I'd bet the farm you never pulled a gun on anybody."

McCormick looked at him in a moment of surprise; then he replied, "Of course not. I knew how to hotwire a car."

"How did you learn how to do that?" The judge asked curiously.

McCormick shrugged. "I taught myself. It's not exactly rocket science. I mean, I liked cars a lot; I understood how an ignition worked."

"How old were you?"

"Um, the first time? Oh, about fourteen."

"_Fourteen_?"

"Well, almost fourteen. It was my uncle's Bonneville." He realized the judge was staring. He looked down at the cereal again and stirred it thoughtfully with the spoon. Then he looked straight at him. "You know, he came home one night half in the bag and beat the crap out of me. Um," he paused for a moment, "I don't remember why, I must've done something. Anyway, after a while he quit and went to bed. But, see, what used to happen is that he'd get up in the morning and remember he'd beaten me up but, what the hell, he'd be a little fuzzy on the details so he'd do it _again_ just to make sure.

"And that didn't seem very fair to me, you know, never did." McCormick took a breath. "So I decided that night to run away. But he used to keep the keys in his pocket and he'd fallen asleep with his clothes on. So I got a paring knife out of the drawer, just in case I had to scrape the wires, and . . . God that was a beautiful car. 285 hp, V-8. A little hard to see out over the steering wheel, though. Happiest night of my entire misspent youth." Mark sat back, smiling wistfully.

"What happened?"

"Well, how far would a thirteen-year-old get in a convertible? I had no idea where to go. I made it to the beach. I watched the sun come up. Then a cop came along and asked me where my mom was. Hah. It's a good thing I _didn't_ have a gun. Anyway, he hauled me off to the precinct and they handed me over to somebody from Juvenile." There was a pause. "Then my uncle came and got me," he added, grimly.

"You didn't tell anybody?" The judge asked quietly, "I mean, about your uncle?"

McCormick looked at him quizzically. "How the hell was I supposed to know there was anything wrong? I mean, yeah, my mom hadn't done it, but it wasn't until after she died that I started acting out. And lots of people _knew_, and none of them did anything. At any rate, by then I'd stolen the man's car." He shook his head in wonderment. "They probably would have told him he needed to use a bigger stick." He stirred the now-soggy cornflakes and made a face. "What really made me sad, though, was he traded the Bonneville in on a hardtop." McCormick sighed. "I loved that Bonneville . . . and I had to learn how to jimmy a car."

Hardcastle fought down a smile at this last remark, and sat for a moment, saying nothing. Then he began slowly, "You know, not all sixteen-year-olds are the same."

"Yeah," McCormick replied sullenly as he stood to put the bowl in the sink, "I know."

"And this one, his name's Carlos, Carlos Tobeck, he's carrying a gun, and he hasn't bothered to learn which ones are the ignition wires, and he thinks it's okay to hit somebody on the head so he can take anything he happens to want."

"I _know._"

"And the next time maybe he'll use the gun as something other than a bludgeon, though it doesn't look like he'd have to do much more than he's already doing to take someone down permanently."

"And _someone_ taught him to do that, somewhere along the way."

"Okay, so we do some research on Tobeck, I go to the DA, and ask 'em to request contingency sentencing. If the kid straightens out in juvie, no graduating to Quentin. Would you be willing to ID him then?"

McCormick stood at the sink, looking out into the gray early-morning light. He finally nodded slowly. Then he added, "But you'd better tell Frank to put together a reasonable line-up this time, or the defense attorney is going to get it tossed out."

"Hah, Frank is going to ask to see your law school diploma, kiddo."

McCormick shrugged. "Just advice from an experienced amateur."

"And if this kid turns out to be a sociopath, I get to say 'I told you so'."

"Hah," McCormick smiled, "do you have _any_ idea how many people are waiting to say that to you?"


End file.
